We've Got a Big Mess On Our Hands
by RainingMonday
Summary: A distraught Mark persuades Addison to accompany him on a date to make Lexie and her new boyfriend jealous, but the plan implodes as they realize their intoxicating chemistry hasn’t exactly faded over time. Maddison with Slexie undertones.


**We've Got a Big Mess On Our Hands**

**Short little Maddison one-shot in which I hate on Lexie (albeit in a subtle way) and give her what she deserves. We've Got a Big Mess On Our Hands is a song by The Academy is ..., the song in the restaurant is Temperature by Sean Paul.**

* * *

She was always good at the charade of preoccupation, of pretending the clipboard in front of her demanded her entire attention or that she was researching a prestigious case while really aspiring to expand her abundant shoe collection. But a recent almost-escapade with a certain heart surgeon has left her void and unfeeling and the energy it takes to care evades her.

Her elbow rests inconspicuously on the counter, supporting her drooping head and slightly parted lips as she tries to ignore the spectacle in front of her. Two of the interns are practically getting it on in the hallway in front of her, and at one time she would have unleashed her Satanic Attending fury on them but now she just watches with vague amusement as they eat each other's faces off and another intern tries futilely to interrupt them.

It is only after they break apart, illustrating reluctance in the extreme, that she verifies the recurring tugs of familiarity and recognizes the intern, Mark's intern, the other Grey sister, making out with a bigger blonde intern. This spectacle is somehow more revolting now that she knows the participants and she wished she would have broken them up for Mark's sake, although she hasn't a clue what might have transpired between him and the intern. What was her name? Lacey? Lexie? Something preppy like that, she thinks.

Her discomfort only aggrandizes when something brushes her shoulder and she turns to find a blank-faced Mark handing a file meekly to a nurse, and for the first time, she is angry. Mark Sloan doesn't do meek. Meek is the opposite of Mark, and although her dislike of Meredith has faded into a cordial almost-friendship, she finds herself abhorring the younger Grey sister.

"Hey," she greets softly as he sinks down in a chair beside and observes the scene with careful indifference that borders on glumness.

"Hey," he murmurs back, watching as Lexie (she decides it's Lexie, not Lacey) nods at the interrupting intern and then turns back to her paramour to continue their public make-out session. It's beginning to make her physically ill so she imagines it has to be many times worse for Mark and rests a hand on his corded forearm.

"Hey! What are you fools _doing_? Messing around when there are lives to save and people to suture? Where are your residents? And Lexie Grey, I can confidently say that you are more trouble than your sister, which is saying something."

Their white knight arrives in the form of Miranda Bailey and sends Lexie and the other intern scurrying in opposite ways, but not before Lexie calls, "Danielle's? At seven?" and the other intern, Pierce, as Mark whispers in her ear, confirms it.

Mark's expression changes in an instant from agonized to deviously pleased, and she reflects later that that should have been the first sign of a tempest of trouble. "Mark?" she inquires. "Are you okay?"

"We broke up," he states unnecessarily. "Because she didn't want to move in with me and I didn't want to wait and now she's dating that jerk and rubbing it in my face and I'm fucking tired of her crap." She is about to spout words that embody comfort and release, but before she is able to do more than open her berry red lips, Mark continues, "I'm tired of it and I want to mess back."

Telling him the pitfalls of revenge is the moral thing to do, but the darker side of her is intrigued and she remembers the satisfaction of pinning Meredith's panties to the bulletin board and does not deny Mark the perverse pleasure of hurting Lexie back. How, exactly, he is going to do it is unclear until he turns pleading sky-hued orbs on her.

Her recklessness is fueled by the exhausting process of prepping Izzie Stevens for impregnation via IVF, checking that no cancer had spread to her reproductive system and that she would be able to support a baby. Her and Alex came to the latent conclusion after George's death that life is short and decided to celebrate Izzie's full remission by having a child. Though skeptical of this measure for assuaging grief, she agreed to help her two former interns and watched carefully with the fertility specialist as new life formed right before her eyes.

"Will you go with me?" Marks asks, effectively catching her off guard.

"Go with you where?"

"To the restaurant, as my 'date,'" he explains patiently. "If anyone can make her jealous, it's you." She admits later that that last bit of flattery unlatches her reluctance to the point where she is actually considering it, just so she can get all dressed up like she hasn't had the opportunity to do in so long.

"I'm tired. Take Callie."

"Lexie is aware that Callie is a lesbian, Addie."

"Right. I suppose that wouldn't have quite the effect you were hoping for." Mark shakes his head, and the simple motion breathes life into all the memories of times he _didn't _say no to her, times that he gave up dates and surgeries and eventually New York, his favorite city in the world, for her. "Fine," she agrees petulantly before she knows what she's saying, and Mark pecks her cheek gratefully before hurrying off.

As she enters the Danielle's, Mark's hand twisting closer to the silk covered skin of her lower back, she has to admit that the intern in question at least doesn't have horrible taste. The restaurant is upscale enough that she wonders how the supposedly destitute interns are affording it, with fancy lighting, an occupied dance floor, abundant palm trees and other foliage, and modern furniture and décor.

Figuring that Mark's revenge might as well be complete, she dressed up in a taupe chiffon dress that reaches an almost-modest mid-thigh. The dress's beaded detail catches the soft blue lighting, highlighting the intricate curls of her hair. So, she was a knockout on purpose, but she figures that if she manages an antithesis of the exhausted, harried Addison that visited before, Lexie might not recognize her.

"Two?" a pixie-like blonde hostess assumes verbally, her eyes raking over Mark's abs under his Armani dress shirt, and Addison tenses involuntarily.

"Yes," Mark answers, ignorant of her attempted charms, and although she assumes his eyes are sweeping the restaurant for Lexie they are actually focused on the bumpy ridges of her spine under the creaminess of her skin.

They are seated in a booth just outside the general bustle of hurrying waiters and waitresses, which affords them an excellent view of the bobbing and bouncing figures on the dance floor. Addison spots Lexie and Pierce a few booths away, although if they were paying attention they would have a better view of her and Mark than they have of them.

She orders a fruity, bright drink that is nevertheless loaded with potent alcohol. Mark gets scotch and sips it, never moving his eyes from Lexie's rapture, which is focused on Pierce. Personally, she can't comprehend the attraction, because Lexie looks about nine years old, complete with pigtails, but after all the tragedy she and Mark have endured she doesn't think she has the right to judge.

The drinks disappear down her throat faster than she can count. If Lexie has even noticed them, they are failing to make her jealous, because they are both in their separate bubbles, her having migrated to straight tequila and him watching as Lexie folds her hands under her chin and Pierce grabs a pigtail playfully.

"Addie? Addison?" Mark's gruff voice is antithetically tender as he fetches her from her hypnologic state in which the aqua waves eat up the golden sand on a entirely forsaken beach and she has never heard or Mark or Derek or Lexie or Meredith. The life of a hermit has never seemed more appealing and she wonders if she could pull off the tranquil Zen thing. Somehow she doesn't think so.

"Addison!"

"What? Sorry, I thought you were busy ogling your girlfriend."

"She's not my girlfriend."

"Not for lack of trying."

"Fuck off, Addison, I was trying to be nice."

"We don't have to be nice. We're using each other, like we always have."

"Hey," Mark says, his voice dancing between affectionate and aggressive. "There was one point when we weren't just using each other. You might not want to admit it, but it's true. And I know I asked to use you, but what the hell are you using me for?"

"Nothing. Company," she admits. She hates the way Mark extracts answers out of her so easily, like he was made to do so. And she hates that vulnerability invades her whenever he's around.

"Addie." His voice is heartbreakingly gentle, but she doesn't want to feel the delicate touch of his large, warm fingers on her forearm because that would just be opening the Pandora's box of irresistibility.

"Don't. Please, I don't want your pity. It's just …it's pretty lonely on Team Addison when you're the only member, you know?"

"People aren't exactly lining up for positions on Team Mark either."

"I'm here, aren't I?"

"That's true," he conceded. "Okay, you can have partial membership. We can even get matching t-shirts," Mark says, exuding charm as he bestows his mile-wide smile on her.

"Are we going to make your preschooler jealous or not?" Addison asks before a ridiculous image of her and Mark in matching hot pink t-shirts invades her brain. Their shrimp cocktail, which is bravely attempting to look exotic, arrives, and Addison dips one of the little pink bodies deep in the sauce. Mark's eyes lag on her exaggerated movements as she sticks the rosy tip of her tongue into the vermilion sauce and licks her lips teasingly. The temperature rises about ten degrees, courtesy of their chemistry, and she can feel Mark's scorching eyes on her collarbone, the dip of her dress, on her breasts.

They have always been able to do this to each other, to drive themselves to the point of combustion just by looks and dirty innuendoes; it's just the way they're built. Addison pushes the shrimp into her mouth further, grimacing at the taste of the cocktail sauce but willing to endure it because Mark is practically drooling and furious that she is so effortlessly able to make him so.

"How's the shrimp?" he practically snarls.

"Fine," she sighs delicately, fluttering her eyelashes. "But I like my shrimp a little … bigger, if you know what I mean."

"Fuck, Addison," he groans, and she is proud of herself for procuring proof that she is still desirable until he continues, "you're drunk."

Frustrated, she tilts her body slightly to the side so Mark receives the optimum view of her sucking the sauce off the stringy body of the shrimp. It doesn't take long for Mark to produce a desperate, virile growl, and she smiles predatorily, Lexie forgotten, sure she has the upper hand in the situation, at least until she feels the delicate touch of his fingers against her inner thigh and gives an involuntary yelp.

"Mark," she hisses. "What are you doing?"

"What?" Mark asks innocently. Somehow he has managed to sneak his hand under the short golden hem of her dress and nearly up to her panties, and his fingers rub soft circles against the velvety, sensitive skin of her thigh, doing terrible things to her self-control.

"Mark!" she yells, "St-" But the rest of the words disintegrate into a breathy moan as his hand slides abruptly up her leg to the black lace of her panties. His fingernail traces delicate trails over the winding lace patterns, causing her to grab the table loudly and obviously. She wants to pull away but Mark's touch is overpowering, a delicious but perpetually forbidden fruit. It somehow felt wrong even back when he was hers for the taking.

It's not a joking tease between friends anymore, as he is eliciting more and more frequent whimpers from her. Mark may have been aware of their sudden proximity but she certainly wasn't, feeling the supple fabric of his slacks against her bare knee is a surprise, just as much as her unexpected ability to scent the wintermint of his breath, spicy and sweet. It screams _too close_! but the option of turning back seems to have been stolen by some mysterious, ill-wishing force, so she finally admits defeat and grants Mark the kiss he has been working for.

Even if it's only a façade. Even if it's only a manipulation. Even it it's only a tool to provoke someone else.

Mark's lips devour hers at the same rate that the world around them ceases to exist, so Addison has no idea that Lexie has finally spotted them, nor that she has jumped up, the poster child of incredulity, nearly spilling pasta on her unadorned brown dress as she watches them. Nor does Addison have the merest inkling that Pierce was just a ploy to maneuver Mark into crawling back to her. No, the only thing Addison knows is that the downy skin on the back of Mark's neck is as soft as ever, and that their aggressive kisses still taste of missed opportunity, but if she had been aware of what was going on in the mind of Lexie Grey at that moment, she would have called time of death on the intern's grand plan.

Pierce, meanwhile, is vying ineffectually for the dubious honor of Lexie's attention, but his attempts to draw her back to their date bear no fruit. Though Addison's hair has grown out from the short bob she wore last time in Seattle, and although she has cast aside the mask of just another frantic family member of a patient, she is unmistakable, and Lexie realizes the multitude of things Mark has left unsaid.

Not that either of them know. Or care. The radioactive jealousy oozing off Lexie is farthest from their concern, because it's not about revenge or company anymore, it's about the fact that they are drawn together like oppositely charged magnets and this time they are tired of resisting the pull.

Their passion-laden embrace is cut short by the reentry of their waiter, who looks faintly embarrassed but not altogether surprised. Mark postpones ordering and instead drags her to the center of the restaurant, where a makeshift dance floor has been born. Couples spin and grind, depending on their moods, and Mark captures her and twirls her into the slightly dimmer light. Abruptly the song changes into something entirely inappropriate for any dancing even related to traditional, so Addison immerses herself in the flow and grinds like she hasn't done since med school.

_Well woman the way the time cold I wanna be keepin' you warm  
I got the right temperature to shelter you from the storm  
Oh lord, gal I got the right tactics to turn you on, and girl I...  
Wanna be the Papa...You can be the Mom....oh oh!_

The beat carries their swiftly moving bodies like puppets, pushing them so close that soon they are breathing the same air and Addison can feel the accelerated thump of Mark's heart. Mark spins her around and the rock hard muscles of his abdomen cradle her back and his hands explore the crescents of her hips. She arches into him, marveling at how well they fit, and ignores the warning signs of alcohol clouding her brain. She wants Mark and she wants him now. Fuck mornings.

She turns again and her hand locates the fabric just under Mark's belt buckle. Her fingernails barely brush it, but he crushes their bodies even closer nevertheless. "I thought you wanted to make your girlfriend jealous," she whispers deviously, tantalizingly in his ear.

Mark shrugs, trying to pull off insouciance. "I only dated her to forget you. How it got to the point where I was using you to forget her to forget you, I have no idea. I guess the point is, it's always been about you. Besides, you're hot when you're drunk."

"Acceptable," she allows. "Although I might have to punish you for that last statement. I am inebriated because you brought me here."

"You can punish me all you want if we leave now," Mark murmurs huskily, and she obliges only too willingly, exiting the restaurant on his arm and ignoring the intern's blatant struggle for Mark's attention.

So, once again, under the Archfield's cover of darkness, she allows Mark to slip and pull her out of her clothes, to press her open gently and make her body sing for him. The joining of slick, sweaty skin trading perfumes is the antidote, as always, for whatever crap is going on in her life at the time. Only Mark has this ability, and yet she likes to think her company produces the tantamount effect on his problems.

And oddly enough, regret doesn't make itself known the next morning, perhaps because she has accepted the inevitable. Mark is a pivotal part of her and nothing short of utter destruction will ever take that part away. The only problem is finding him, because usually she is the first to wake and run.

Half a lazy stretch later, Mark emerges from the bathroom, sees her awake, and abruptly hurries back in, eyes closed.

"What, no good morning? What has the world come to?" she quips jokingly.

"I just … if you regretted it, I wanted to give you an easy out."

"Oh Mark." She sinks back into the bed's loving arms, unsnarling the emotions that his words have created inside her. "I never deserved you."

"What?" He is incredulous to the point of anger.

"I just … you gave everything, your life, your practice, just everything for me, and all you got was an aborted baby and a city you hate."

"I always though it was me who didn't deserve you," he replies, sinking down next to her. "You were amazingly smart and so put together and possibly the most beautiful women I had – I have ever seen and then I had to go and fuck up your marriage."

"It was already fucked up," she sighs. "Only _possibly _the most beautiful?"

"Jeez, woman, you are vain," he says, tapping her nose and grinning.

"You know what this means, don't you?" she asks hesitantly. He cocks his head, a silent question. "If we both don't deserve each other … maybe we actually do deserve each other."

Mark's frown while trying to sort out her statement is so endearing that she giggles, and he frowns and tickles her and starts laughing too, which really sets her off. They're rolling around the bed laughing like five-year-olds but she's never cared less in her life. And when the laughter fades and the acceptance that they will just have to wait and see sets in, they dress each other tenderly, buttoning and tucking with the utmost care, and depart.

She checks on Izzie one last time, and the resident's rather pointed looks insinuate that she is not blind to the post-mind-blowing sex vibes Addison and Mark are giving off, about each other, no less. Izzie captures a promise from Addison for regular visits to check on the growing hint of life, something Addison knows can't be good but also can't regret.

They elongate their parting at the gate of Addison's plane for as long as humanely possible, exploring the little shops in SeaTac and discovering new ways of dawdling. Truth be told, this goodbye frightens her, because it will either mean what it is supposed to or the exact opposite.

She waits until last call before digging for her passport and I.D. Mark stays in the line with her but disengages when she is the only lingering traveler, and she comes to the realization that goodbye is her responsibility. "Mark, this was … good, for me, but I have to go now."

"Okay," Mark says, his eyes strangely indigo and inscrutable. "Goodbye, Addison."

"Goodbye." It is just a whisper, spoken into empty air as her cursed feet pass the security guard on the way to the plane.

Then, simultaneously they turn, much to the aggravation of the poor airport staff. "So I'll pick you up on Friday? At eight?" Mark calls to her.

"Sounds good," she replies, ignoring the urgent whispers of the crew, wondering delightedly how he will find her house.

"Wear something nice. This is going to be upscale LA," he warns.

"You won't know what hit you," she promises, and with that teasing line, she disappears onto the plane.

* * *

**So, yeah. School has been a bitch. AP and honors classes kill, just warnin' ya. Reviews would be a welcome break from academics :D. And don't you just freaking wish that would happen in the show?**

* * *


End file.
